by Ramy Vance
Dark Gate Angels Complete Series Omnibus
Ramy Vance
Michael Anderle
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2020 LMBPN Publishing
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
A Michael Anderle Production
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First US edition, December 2020
Contents
War Elves and Drones
Gladiators and Shotguns
Allies, Enemies and Unknowns
Life's a Lich
Undie, You Lich
Broken Victories
End of Beginnings
Sum of all Deaths
To Hell
You Only Undie Twice
Author Notes Ramy Vance
Author Notes Michael Anderle
Other books by Ramy Vance
Books By Michael Anderle
Connect with The Authors
War Elves and Drones
Dark Gate Angels Book One
Chapter One
“There she is!” a photographer shouted, and the night was lit by dozens of cameras flashing simultaneously.
Anabelle Chase stepped from the limo. Her features were stunning, to say the least. She looked as though she had been carved from stone—a statue of a goddess whose time would never come to pass. Her hair young, punkish hairstyle was a striking contrast to her pearl-pink dress.
Anabelle’s gown, hand-stitched by the last great dressmaker in Eastern Europe and flown in from Prague that morning, was an elegant throwback to the glory days of Hollywood while still adhering to modern sensibility in accentuating her curves.
The cameras continued flashing. They would have blinded most people, but to Anabelle, who was accustomed to the lights of the world, they were anything but dazzling. The bright lights of the red carpet, the hotels, and the paparazzi were mundane.
She had seen true lights before. Nothing would ever compare to those.
Anabelle scanned the paparazzi around her. It wasn’t difficult to move between them. They all wanted the same thing.
A show.
They wanted to see into her life, to reveal to the masses that she was merely a regular human being, the same as everyone else.
And they were waiting for her to trip, to fall, to show a crack in the veneer of perfection. Anabelle couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t going to happen. Perfection was what she had spent all of her training to attain.
Anabelle glided away from the limo, paying attention to every movement of her body as she sashayed between the flashing lights, occasionally stopping to smile or wave to one of the cameras. All her actions were a performance. Inside, she was cool and annoyed.
Not at the paparazzi; they were merely doing their job. Nor at her fans—they, much like Annabelle, were playing a role.
It was the playing that annoyed Anabelle. This wasn’t her. She had said it in multiple interviews. Modeling was just a job. It wasn’t what people made it out to be. There was nothing special about what Anabelle did. “I’m a glorified coat hanger,” she had joked in an interview.
A hanger with thoughts and opinions rarely ever taken into consideration. Anabelle didn’t know how much longer she could put up with this. She didn’t know how many more of these events she could take before she finally threw up her arms and showed the world who she really was.
She strode to the entrance where security stopped the paparazzi from following her any farther. Inside, Anabelle approached the bar and took a seat. The young bartender’s expression said he couldn’t believe who was sitting before him, but to his credit, he kept his cool.
“What will it be?” he said, his voice cracking like that of a prepubescent boy.
OK, so he didn’t keep his cool, she thought before saying, “A martini…shaken, not stirred.”
The bartender chuckled and prepared the drink. Behind him, CNN was running another story on the ‘impending war with the Dark One,’ a phrase circulating in certain circles which news analysts attributed to an internet conspiracy.
Chett Baker, who the camera now focused on, believed the supposed war was nothing more than “doom-mongering” used to sell video games.
On the screen, an image of Myrddin holding a copy of the immensely popular VR game, Middang3ard, popped up. “This game,” Chett said. “The Dark One is the villain of the Middang3ard game and now Myrddin, the game’s creator, is trying to tell you it’s real. I mean, come on! The Dark One? Dark One? Seriously?” Chett said with an exasperated sigh. “Talk about a lack of creativity. Just a big, bad guy who no one knows anything about? They couldn’t even come up with a scary name. Myrddin should hire some writers to help him with his apocalypse as we—”
The bartender put her drink down in front of her. She thanked him without taking her eyes off the TV. “If only you knew what you were talking about, Chett,” she muttered.
“Excuse me?” the bartender said.
His question brought Anabelle back to reality. “Oh, nothing. Just watching the news. It seems all everyone talks about is Myrddin and the Dark One.”
The bartender nodded. “No kidding. The news says this Myrddin guy is trying to recruit humans for a war or something? Sounds kinda like a scam to me. Something an old, eccentric billionaire would do. Kinda wacky, right?”
Anabelle laughed softly despite herself. “Yeah, it does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
Coyness. Always the best deflection. But what Anabelle wanted was honesty. She wanted to tell the bartender how she felt about Myrddin. How Myrddin had wasted her time for the last thirty years.
Goddess, has it been thirty years already?
Anabelle could recall every mission Myrddin had sent her on. Not that her assignments were all that memorable. Always the same kind of thing. She’d been on Earth for thirty years, stealing government secrets, nudging politicians in the right direction, and playing in the background.
None of it had been any fun, either. She wasn’t a spy like some of Myrddin’s other agents. For the last thirty years, she had been a glorified socialite. Now she was a model and social media influencer. Ugh. Could life get any more boring?
Anabelle stared down at her drink as the bartender went on about his scam theories. She wished she could have talked to him. Honestly, talking to anyone would have been great. All of the pretending was starting to make her lonely.
Thirty years felt like forever.
A strange thought for a creature who would live forever.
Unless she died from boredom.
A beer was placed on the counter, interrupting Anabelle’s thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder. Roy stood behind her, a beer of his own in his hand. He wore slacks and a collared shirt, both at odds with his scarred, dirty, and scruffy face. He would be more at home on a construction site.
Roy leaned close and said, “Beer?”
Anabelle glared at the drink in disgust. “Beer? You know I can’t be dri
nking so many calories.”
Roy grunted and gave a noncommittal shrug, then drained nearly half of his beer. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want. Also, cut the crap; I’ve seen you eat before. I got us a table.” He pointed to the back of the room, retrieved her untouched beer, and walked off.
Anabelle followed Roy to a little private booth, away from prying eyes and ears. “It pays to keep up appearances,” she said. “I don’t want people to start spreading rumors that I have an eating disorder. That would be bad for my image. And you know, all I get to care about is my image.”
“Speaking of which, did you get it?”
Anabelle reached into her purse, dug around, and retrieved a flash drive. She slid it over to Roy. “Easy enough.”
Roy grabbed the flash drive and closed his hand over it, his good eye studying Anabelle from across the table. “Oh, yeah? How easy?”
“If you’re looking for gross details, you might just want to read the report. It’ll be a lot more interesting.”
Roy finished his beer, then swiped Anabelle’s. “Thanks,” he said as he took a sip. “And no, I’m not looking for intimate details. But I was told the mark was going to be a difficult one. That he wouldn’t part with this information without…” He paused. “Persuasion.”
Anabelle leaned close and batted her gorgeous eyelashes. “Human men are human men. It doesn’t matter how much money they have, what causes they care for, or how smart they think they are, they love to be flattered. They only think with one head. And most of them can’t hold their liquor around a pretty woman.”
Roy pocketed the flash drive and nodded as he guzzled the beer. “True. Very true. And thanks for this.”
“The war effort thanks you,” Anabelle muttered.
“No, I mean, I thank you. I really appreciate it. You have no idea how helpful this is going to be for the Mech Riders.”
“Am I allowed to ask what’s on it?”
“Of course. You’re the one who swiped it. They’re schematics. Our original design for the mechs had a few issues, and we’ve been outsourcing to different companies to help design past the flaw. The gentlemen that you stole this from stole our information from a rival company and started making improvements. He did some amazing upgrades. We let him work on it for a bit, and now we’re taking it back. With interest.”
Anabelle loved hearing what was actually happening with her missions. Other than Roy, no one told her anything. At least he had the decency to treat her as something more than a walking fashion billboard. “Roy, can I talk to you about something?”
Roy rose and held up his hand. “Hold on. I’m grabbing another round. Beer is weak as piss here. Every moment I’m here, I miss Middang3ard more.” He left for the bar and returned with four more beers. “What were you saying?”
Anabelle accepted one of the beers and tasted it. Roy was right. The brew was weak compared to what the realm produced. “I want out of this assignment. I don’t care who you need to talk to or what I need to do, but I want out. I can’t take this shit anymore.”
“Why would you want out? It’s a cushy gig. You hardly have to do anything.”
“And you think that’s what I want? To spend the next forty years playing arm candy to whoever Senator Myrddin needs me to snuggle up to for political clout?”
Roy stroked his beard as he made a show of giving her words serious thought. “Doubt you would.”
Anabelle tucked her hair behind her ears, which ended in points. Her skin shimmered, and the fairness of her elvish complexion shone for a second. “I’m nearly three hundred years old. This is a job for a teenager. Another two hundred years, and I’ll be old enough to be a matron. I should be on the front lines.”
Roy pointed at his ears until Anabelle covered hers with her hair. “How do makeup artists not notice them?”
“Seriously? That’s what you’re curious about? You want to know what spells I use to stay hidden. I’m—"
“Relax, relax.” Roy raised his hands in mock surrender. “No need to start getting—”
“I’ve been trained in every elvish fighting style, sixteen orc styles, and every form of human martial arts. I should be out there. I want to be out there.”
Roy sat back in silence, studying Anabelle as he slowly sipped his beer. She wanted to know what was going through his mind. This wasn’t the first time she’d voiced her opinion to him. Hopefully, it would be the last.
Finally, Roy said, “I admire your zeal. Really, I do. But you have another talent that we haven’t come across. Don’t know if it’s magic or just you, but there isn’t anyone in any of the nine realms as charming as you.”
Anabelle wanted to storm out of the bar right then, but she decided to wait and see what kind of hole Roy was going to dig for himself.
Roy scratched his beard nervously, his good eye scanning the bar. “You’ve been instrumental in prepping humanity for what’s coming. Without you, Myrddin wouldn’t have shit. You know that, right? I don’t know how you do it, but you always get what you want.”
Anabelle folded her arms and glared at him. “Yeah. Except this.”
“Yeah. Except for this. I’m sorry, Belle.”
“Fuck your ‘sorry.’ So? Which rich asshole do I have to entertain next week?”
“Well, since you brought it up…” Roy reached into his bag and pulled out a manila folder, which he slid over to Anabelle. Then he paused and scanned the bar. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “That’s…not good.”
Across the bar, the bartender had poured a few more drinks. He put them on a tray, headed over to their table, and placed the tray down in front of Roy and Anabelle. “Since it’s a little slow, I figured these could be on the house.” He winked at Anabelle.
She allowed herself to blush slightly, then lifted the corner of her lips up with just a hint of a coy smile. “Thanks,” she purred before taking one of the drinks.
The bartender was grinning ear to ear, obviously beside himself. Then a loud crack sounded, as deafening as thunder, and the bar brightened as streams of electricity bounced around the room.
A portal ripped open in the middle of the bar, as though someone had torn apart the fabric of reality. The tables and chairs in the bar floated up to the ceiling, gravity ceasing to make sense before everything crashed to the floor.
The blast had flung the bartender through the air, and he landed behind the bar in a storm of broken glass.
Roy and Anabelle stared in horror at the portal as a group of orcs rushed through it. The creatures were armed and wore the insignia of the Dark One’s rabid pack of assassins, a fist holding a dagger that dripped blood.
The orc captain, Jarok, pointed at Anabelle. “Her! She’s the one with the drive,” he shouted.
The room was quickly filling with orcs—more than Anabelle had ever seen before. And to think they were once elves, she thought, marveling at their obvious differences.
The orcs were gray creatures, tall, lanky, and extremely muscular. Their jaws stuck out a fraction, and their bottom fangs were almost long enough to touch their noses. Their brawny bodies were built for one thing and one thing alone—fighting.
Roy pulled his plasma pistol from the holster inside his jacket and fired a shot at Jarok, who deftly deflected it with his axe. Roy yelled at her, “You need to get out of here!”
She turned to run, but then she hesitated. Why the hell would she run and leave Roy alone to fight off all these orcs? She’d been running for so long. Running through different lives, running instead of actually taking what she wanted.
It stopped today. No more running.
Chapter Two
Anabelle grabbed one of the fallen chairs and snapped off a leg. She brandished the piece of wood like a club and stood beside Roy. “I’m not gonna leave you here to get your ass torn open. You got any more guns?”
Roy snorted as he sized up the orcs in the room. “Nope. If you want a gun, or anything else for that matter, you’re gonna have t
o rip it away from one of them. You ready for that?”
“I’ve been ready for thirty years.”
Anabelle sprang forward, studying the movements of the orcs in front of her. It had been years since she had engaged in an actual fight—at least a hundred. And those had never been real combat, merely sparring lessons with instructors. Tonight she would find out how well muscle memory worked.
Three orcs fired their plasma rifles at Anabelle, but she dodged to the right, sliding across the floor to take cover behind an overturned table. That was too close. Anabelle grimaced. Wonder if a stick is going to cut it?
The orcs were firing again, and plasma flew above Anabelle’s head before a blast tore through the right side of the table. She had to move, but she wasn’t sure where to.
The air was hot and filled with the acrid scent of plasma. Another blast punched through Anabelle’s table. One more shot and she was dead. She had to move now, and it didn’t matter where.
One of the smaller orcs looked at Jarok, eyes troubled. Like any good orc leader, Jarok pointed at Anabelle and Roy and said, “To your last breath.”
The smaller orc shrugged. “Yes, Master Jarok.”
Anabelle decided not to wait. She leapt from behind the table as an orc came within arm’s length of her. She sprinted to him and thrust her chair leg up against his chin with enough force to break his jaw. The orc stumbled away, and Anabelle dropped the chair leg. She grabbed the ax from his hand, spun around, and plunged it into his chest.
The creature fell backward, and Anabelle snatched his rifle. She flipped his corpse over as she fired at another orc, hitting him in the forehead.
